


Vhenan

by Bdanie23



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-08 23:47:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19878079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bdanie23/pseuds/Bdanie23
Summary: "I love you, Solas."He had not said it back—he had only turned from her, his sorrowful apology heavy upon the tepid air.





	1. My Heart

She stood within the cloying mist of Crestwood, enthralled by the breaking of her own heart. The skies resonated with thunder, with the smiting of her soul, and gold-flecked eyes lingered upon the thicket to which he departed. Her lips tingled with the sensation of his kiss (calloused and warm upon her own, chapped by the cutting winds of Skyhold); and her brow burnt with the ghost pains of her Vallaslin.

The mark of a slave placed upon her brow by her Keeper at age eighteen. A rite of passage—a metaphor of adulthood. Among the Dalish, Aelin had known security. She had known peace. She had understood, with naïve profundity, the place of her clan within the world. And as Inquisitor, she had fought, too, for Clan Lavellan’s safety within the wilds—even as her heart broke her sacred oaths and her unflinching loyalty for him. For Solas.

She remembered with clarity how unkindly he’d spoken of them, his words dripping with the condescension of a superior being. And she had thought, perhaps foolishly, that he had seen her through the mask of his prejudice. That the mage had taken her into his arms, heedless of her heritage, and pressed her close to the beating of his enigmatic heart.

She had thought many things when his arms had coiled around her back, holding her in a security that permeated her bones; that filled her with a safeness and surety that even Skyhold could not rival. 

Solas had understood her. He’d delved into the nooks of her desolation, he’d pulled her from the abysmal chasm of despair when all else had turned against her.

He’d cleaved through her last memories of Haven (burning, suffering, buried beneath an avalanche of her own making) and filled her mourning heart with new, precious recollections. They’d stood side by side within her dreamscape, their brows brushing, their lips melded into one.

And she had been his, wholly. To fight alongside, to defend him from the scathing remarks of Orlesian nobility, from the unspoken threats of Cassandra, from the chaos that slumbered at the doorstep.

She had been his. She was still, as she drifted languidly in his direction, his name a broken plea upon her tear-stained lips.

When had she begun to cry?

“Solas,” the Inquisitor whispered, and the Anchor upon her hand pulsed with the vivacity of her emotion, the ravenous hunger of her heartache. To exact such pain upon the world, to open the belly of the sky as that wretched mark was meant to—

_No._

Aelin shook her head, spools of unruly, golden hair (freed by the wanderings of his loving, amorous hands) caressing her cheeks, unbound and swaying in the midnight winds.

“Solas!” Her cries were louder now as she strode after him, as she fastened her slender fingers upon the tether that bound them. The rope that lead from his heart to hers; the unbreakable chain set into place by her confession, by her imploring whispers.

 _I love you, Solas._  
He had not said it back—he had only turned from her, his sorrowful apology heavy upon the tepid air.

 _Please, Vhenan._  
Vhenan—heart. How many times had he spoken that name so lovingly? As though she truly bedded within the steel trappings of his ribcage, snug and safe and significant betwixt his lungs.

But he had ripped her free. With a bloodied hand, he’d mangled her; he’d placed her upon the rain-sodden grasses of Crestwood and left her to bleed, to rot, with the wrecked faiths he’d fostered.

Aelin could not call his name again as she raced, breathless, through the stinging lash of brambles and branches; as she sprinted to the drum of her suffocating heart.

But he was not to be found.


	2. Tell Me Truths of You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But her mage of the rifts was nowhere to be seen. Asleep, perhaps, as her gut had told her he might be–as if she hadn’t come here knowing the likelihood of his absence. She was a coward; that much was irrefutable. Too fearful to fight for the throbbing in her heart, too selfless to insist he fill the irreparable tatters he'd sheared with an explanation.

Like the coils of a sleeping dragon, the points of the Frostback Mountains spread with vast, stretching fingers. Its snowcapped peaks dared to brush the heavens, to caress them with a wintry kiss, and the clouds danced a languid waltz around the perfectly sculpted tips. Indeed, the mountains heaved like a slumbering beast: their magnificence shivering in the wind, as ancient Fir trees and the aching boughs of Evergreens groaned and sang. Their sleepy breath came in hoary puffs of snow, brushed from a jagged spine with the trembling exertion of a mighty, windy breath.

And seated upon the apex of this primordial creature stood Skyhold. Splendorous, somehow, despite the dreary climate. A beacon of hope amid the frostbitten reaches of heavenly cliffs, held together by the toiling, patchwork efforts of pilgrims and soldiers. Banners billowed and unfurled from its cobbled towers, and iron-wrought gates gaped wearily from the mouth of the fortress. The picture of indomitable fortitude, perhaps, as it endured the battering winds of winter and the creaking steppes that served as its bed. More faces (soldiers, refugees, Chantry hopefuls) poured upon the verdant courtyards with each passing day, and the Inquisition welcomed them with open, dutiful arms.

But for Aelin, who had returned empty handed from her heartbreaking traipse through the winding forests of Crestwood. She had attended to her duties with mournful diligence, her smiles timorous and plastered upon her lips with practiced ease. The long, golden spindles of her straw-colored hair were often spun into unruly buns coiled loosely behind her pointed ears. And her eyes, once a magnificent prism of yellow-flecked blue, now thrummed with the makings of heartache.

Solas lingered within his rotunda with each passing day, and the Inquisitor forced her feelings to the recesses of her throbbing chest, burying them within the dank caverns of her ribs. She bade him to accompany her on the many battles left to fight, knowing it’d be foolish to deny herself his assistance in combat, but even so…

Standing at his side was agony. Queries written upon the scarred-porcelain of her face that he did not deign to answer. He met her eyes often, just as he had _before_ , and his feelings were often plain as day.

But still he denied them, opting instead to conscript his heart to a servitude to indifference. 

And it was days of battering training dummies and closing rifts before she mustered the courage to approach him, before her nights grew too heavy and sleepless with unspoken words, and she at last subjected herself to the whims of her heart.

It was evening when she entered the banquet halls of Skyhold, emerging from her quarters freshly washed. Clad in the expertly coiffed leathers of her courtly fashions, she sidled impassively from the heavy, wooden door adjacent to her throne. Her eyes slid to the iron-capped crimson of the Inquisitor’s seat before settling quietly upon the few court attendees that lingered. Some fretted over their dusky wines, their breath heady with the stench of alcohol and victory as they babbled and laugh. Courtiers from Val Royeaux, undoubtedly, come to bask in the Inquisitor’s triumph until the wee hours of the night. Despite her disdain, Aelin passed them a kindly smile, the painted pink of her lips rosy and warm upon her pale skin. She knew, in their eyes, she was little more than a Dalish elf; a wildling, stripped of her forest-wear and fitted into a facade of something noble.

They would support her so long as she was victorious, and they would return her to her clan if ever she proved of disuse.

Solas had understood. In a way that no one else might, he had understood, profoundly, what it was to stand in both the middle and the outskirts. Invited and exiled in a simultaneous breath, welcomed into gilt halls and courtly wonders, but subjected to endure the unending gossip and the vile, prejudiced whispers.

Their true thoughts glittered within the drunken barrens of their depthless stares, their shallowness rippling away to show the greedy hedonism of their grimmer intentions. 

Aelin tore her gaze away, focusing, instead, on the leering closeness to the oak door that would lead her to _him._ She wondered if it was cowardice that had forced her to come so late in the evening, when the rift mage might be slumbering through the Fade rather than poring over his many studies. Would he even be here? And if he was…

Her breath caught in her throat, her eyes squeezing shut as she clenched her fist. The Anchor shuddered to life, humming with a fleeting glow. A reassurance, perhaps, of the power that sang through her veins. A reminder.

She was more than the jagged pieces in her chest. More than the knife he’d lodged between her ribs.

And so the Inquisitor pressed through the aged wood of the door, her slender fingers tight upon the iron handle as she shouldered through and entered the tower’s rotunda. Leliana’s crows cawed overhead, antsy in their midnight roosts, and the languid rustle of paper alerted her to the evening studies of scholars in the library overhead. Candles guttered in the draft of an open window, and night air flooded the foyer in cool, delicate gusts. Tendrils of wind brushed her cheek with tremulous fingers, cupping the slope of her jaw and twisting the locks of her hair.

The breath she drew was slow and steady as her eyes explored the room. Books lay ajar upon neatly organized desks, Elven artificats lay stacked carefully upon shelves, and scrolls of parchment lay in the company of crows-quills and inkwells.

But her mage of the rifts was nowhere to be seen. Asleep, perhaps, as her gut had told her he might be–as if she hadn’t come here knowing the likelihood of his absence. She was a coward; that much was irrefutable. Too fearful to fight for the throbbing in her heart, too selfless to insist he fill the irreparable tatters he'd sheared with an explanation.

With an aching sigh, Aelin brushed the calloused pads of her fingertips along the creaking surface of an Aspen desk. The wood hummed beneath her touch, warmed by the guttering of a nearby candle. Squeezing her eyes shut, she sank into the hold of a wooden chair. Its embrace was familiar: keening with the ancient song of forests and wildlife. More homely than the red-stained throne that awaited her within the Great Hall.

Her tongue caught between her teeth as she wearily peeled her eyes open, shifting her gaze to the sprawling pages of the animal-skin tome before her. Its cover was aged but well-taken care of, and an Elvish title sat squarely upon the spine. Ancient, insofar as her limited understanding could tell. 

She had hardly enough time to squint at the elegant scrawl before a voice, cordial and soft, rode upon the midnight wind. Her spine tightened, her jaw clenched, and her fingers stiffened upon the ear of a page.

“Inquisitor,” he greeted, lingering in the threshold of the doorway, the picture of poise. “May I help you find something?”

So simple–so warm. Uttered with the makings of a friend, as though they’d been nothing more… as though he hadn’t shown her the heart of him within the safety of her dreamscape; as though he hadn’t held her with heartbreaking tenderness when he’d cleansed her skin of the Vallaslin.

Aelin wished he didn’t care. She wished, more than anything, that his love for her wasn’t so clearly kindled within the depths of his bright eyes. And she wished, perhaps, that he’d deign to open the gates of understanding for her–so that she, too, might see why they couldn’t be together.

“No,” her reply was cool, tempered with the makings of caution. “I was looking for you, actually.” She rose from her seat, noiselessly withdrawing from the chair upon which she’d perched. As she moved away, she returned it neatly to its place against the desk. “I wanted to talk about us.”

Aelin’s jaw set as she watched him, as she assessed the muscle that feathered, almost imperceptibly, in the cut of his cheek. 

“There are more important matters at stake, Inquisitor,” he bowed his head kindly, but his dismissal cut deep.

 _“No,”_ she repeated, and his head rose an inch. “I’ve given the entirety of myself to the Inquisition and to Thedas. And I would do so again without hesitation,” an adamant vow, sewn with the fortitude of the lives in her trust. “Despite all they think of me, my people–regardless of how they treat Mages such as I. Corypheus can wait an evening, Solas.”

Tears burned at the backs of her eyes, taunting and cold, and she bit her cheek to keep them at bay.

But still, the mage shook his head, his hands folded neatly behind his back. Even so, remorse and sorrow lined the dark contours of his features. 

“A night will turn into a day. I have distracted you long enough, Lavellan,” not Aelin; not Vhenan. _Lavellan._ “And I cannot give you the answers you seek… not now.”

“Then when, Solas?” she cried in reply, and her slender fists bunched at her sides.

“Should we survive the battle to come, everything will be made clear. That much I promise.”

For a breath, her tongue was stuck behind her teeth. Caged by the words she’d spoken to deaf ears once before. _I love you, Solas._ And as he’d turned away, as she’d demanded he tell her that he did not feel the same… _I cannot._

Then why? Why couldn’t he just explain?

“Very well, then,” she breathed, swallowing the tears that threatened to spill. His eyes lingered upon the tremulous quiver of her lashes, watching the silver that clung, desperately, to the lining of her eyes–refusing to fall.

Aelin wrenched away then, turning her head to the door. Her brow tingled, as though his presence alone revived the magic that’d brushed away her Vallaslin. She wondered if that unbinding had been freedom from him, too; a means to relinquish a heart he could not bear to hold.

For a moment, the Inquisitor lingered, her brow narrowed and her fists bunched. Then, with a quivering breath, she strode out of the room–aware of his eyes resting dismally upon her spine.


End file.
